Sugar and Kisses
by OpalescentGold
Summary: In which Q is (terrifically) bad in the kitchen, James is sweetly indulgent (with ulterior motives), and Q and James are (very much) in love.


**OpalescentGold: Don't own James Bond or Q! Gift for gunshyvw, original prompt: 00q- domestic fluff, James and Q baking! Your choice as to who's the chef and who's hopeless, and how difficult the recipe is!**

 **Warning: tooth-rotting fluff.**

* * *

When James arrives home from Tesco, soaked to the bone from the uncalled-for downpour outside, he is promptly greeted by the distinct smell of something burning rather than the customary kiss.

He pauses at the doorway, placing the food down to take in the situation. Training tells him 'fire' and 'smoke' and 'danger' but months of living with a genius engineer have instilled different responses into him.

"Q?" James calls, toeing his shoes off. On the small chance that this is an attack, not an experiment not gone, he places a hand on his Walther.

It proves to be unnecessary. "In the kitchen," Q calls back, sounding rather put out but not at all frightened or upset. Not a fire then. James won't have to rescue his boffin from death from smoke inhalation.

But, well, Q in the kitchen does explain the smell. For all that he's brilliant with electronics, he doesn't have a good history with cooking. The poor toaster still hasn't recovered from the last time Q got his hands on it.

James is surprised that the fire alarm isn't shrieking yet. A glance up at the ceiling as he crosses the living room, plastic bags swinging from his hands, reveals the screwdriver jammed artfully and forcefully into the alarm.

Q, it seems, got tired of the ear-splitting noise and took it upon himself to stop it. Knowing his lover, they won't even have to buy a new one after this new cooking crisis is over, seeing as it'll take Q seconds to fix whatever he did.

Morgana, their cat, is curled up in a ball on the sofa, shying away from the awful smell. Rayleigh, their other cat, is probably in a similar state somewhere in the flat. James steps into the kitchen and sets the bags down, taking in the scene.

Surprisingly, their kitchen is still utterly intact. Their oven was not blown up, the ceiling is free of mysterious berry stains, and there are no flames licking up the walls.

Q stands before the island, still in his pyjamas, hands on his hips and the most adorable pout on his lips. In front of him, a cupcake pan with very questionable pure black cupcakes in colourful liners sits innocently.

James can't help but smile fondly despite the icy rain that still lingers on his skin and the heart-wrenching state of his suit.

Walking forward, he comes up behind his lover and places his hands gently over Q's. Nuzzling into the crook of his neck despite Q's complaining grumble at his cold lips, James inquires, "What did the cupcakes ever do to you?"

Q huffs out an annoyed breath. "I just wanted to see if I could do it," he explains, the edge of a petulant whine in his voice. "The picture online looked nice."

James chuckles, mindful of keeping Q, who is very nicely warm and dry, away from his wet clothes. When he's at home, it's generally James who makes the meals, and when he's on a mission, Q orders take-out.

Q's normally fine with this arrangement, but they spent the morning cuddling in bed together, there's been a brief lull in terrorist activity, and the contentment that hums in their home is palpable.

James supposes that Q was bored and thought his cooking skills had miraculously improved by osmosis since the last time he blew up the kitchen.

"Looks like you left them in the oven for too long," he murmurs in Q's ear, prompting a delicate shiver. "Did you remember the timer?"

Q pauses. "Yes."

"Yes?" James parrots, amused.

There's a long, mournful sigh. "I got distracted," Q admits. "We need a louder timer."

"Don't blame our timer," James says, smiling. "You can hear the bloody thing out on the street. You just forget the world exists when you're caught up in something. What was it this time? Code? New gadget?"

Q shoots him a dirty look over his shoulder even as he offers up more of his neck for James' affections. "A new software, if you must know. Could revolutionise our firewalls, but I don't suppose _you_ want to hear about that - "

James cuts the stroppy words off by spinning him around and claiming his hello kiss. When they separate again, they're both out of breath, there's a wonderful flush on Q's cheeks, and his glare is utterly ineffective. " _James_."

" _Q_." James rests his forehead against Q's and smiles, a wide, wondering tilt of his lips that he reserves just for Q, happiness golden sunshine in his veins despite the poor, burnt cupcakes that remain on the island countertop.

Q makes a face at him - they both know he can't resist that smile, just as James can't say no to Q when he pulls out the puppy-dog eyes - but smiles back helplessly with a roll of his eyes.

"Don't just stand there," he orders, mock-sternly, and takes a step back to cross his arms over his chest. "Go change, you're going to catch hypothermia at this rate."

James smirks, more indulgent than cowed. "Yes, my Quartermaster."

Q makes a valiant effort to control the twitch of his lips. "I'm going to put these away," he says, gesturing to the plastic bags, "and then you're going to come and help me make cupcakes. Correctly."

"How do you make cupcakes 'correctly'?" James teases, walking towards their bedroom but raising his voice to compensate. "Do you mean without the burning part or do you like a bit of crust on top? Have any plans for the frosting? I hear most cupcakes have frosting."

"Oh, shut up," Q throws back. The sound of the fridge opening is a quiet one, following by the crinkle of the plastic bags, and then James is too far away to hear.

He strips off his wet suit with military efficiency and dries himself off with a towel. A simple, well-worn t-shirt and sweatpants, both grey, are fine for home, although the outside world will never know 007 so casual.

Rayleigh is hiding in the bathroom tub, to his amusement. James bends down briefly to pet the Russian Blue until he seems less frightened. Quickly drying off his hair, he leaves Rayleigh to make his way out when he feels he's ready.

James pads out on bare feet and finds Q shoving the last of the meat inside the fridge. Laughing softly, he comes up behind the boffin again and slips his arms around that slender waist.

This time, James pulls Q back so they're chest to back, a hundred points of contact in-between. Q sighs, going boneless against him, a small smile curving his lips.

They stand there, in the middle of the kitchen, swaying from side to side as if to some rhythm only they can hear, and this is a peace he never expected to find, much less deserve.

"The recipe?" James buries his nose in those dark curls, the smell of vanilla and sugar and the underlying traces of earl grey and home familiar and pleasant.

Q's voice comes out as a lazy purr. "On my laptop." He removes himself from James' arms reluctantly and spends five minutes looking up the recipe again and scribbling it down on a piece of paper.

When he comes back to James, who is leaning against the counter, just watching, Q smiles and waves the paper in the air, as triumphant as if he just repelled seven hackers from MI6′s systems. "Buttercream frosting."

James smiles. Q eyes him warily.

* * *

They start with butter first. No, that's a lie. James takes a look at the recipe and sighs, meandering over to the fridge and pulling out two eggs. "Love, most baked goods turn out better when the eggs are at room temperature."

Q frowns. "Why?"

James chuckles, snagging a stick of butter on his way out. "Don't ask me. Some weird chemistry thing, probably."

Q narrows his eyes. He looks thoughtful, thoughtful enough that James points the hand-held electric beater at him. "Later, Q. You can research all the nitty gritty details of why room-temperature eggs are better than cold eggs _later_."

Those red, red lips twist into an adorable, petulant pout, not that Q would ever call it that. "I just want to know why."

"And you will." James squints at the butter and ponders on the pros and cons of microwaving it. "I know you will. Would you grab the sugar?"

Q grumbles and grabs the sugar. James counts himself lucky that Q is too distracted to think of tasting the white crystals with his finger because his self-control is good but not good.

As if he has somehow developed telepathic abilities, Q flicks an inquiring gaze at James not a second after the thought crosses his mind. Years of experience has taught James that acting innocent does not suit him, so he doesn't even try.

Instead, James creams the sugar and the butter together, reading the ingredients for the dry mixture out loud to Q, only letting his eyes stray to the bowl for seconds at a time.

Somehow, Q still manages to streak his dark hair with white flour. And it's not fair, it's really not, there's no reason Q should be so irresistible while he's making a mess of their kitchen, but James has long since come to terms with his poor lot in life.

To further cement this cold, hard truth, James grabs Q around the waist and pulls him in for a gentle, sweet kiss. "Pour," he says after they're both breathless, grinning, "and try not to get any more flour on yourself."

Q narrows his eyes although his arms are doing a very good clingy octopus impression at the moment. "James Bond, I am the head of Q-Branch and the provider and engineer of your equip - "

James cheats and kisses him again to shut him up, sliding one hand up to cup his nape. Unsurprisingly, they still manage to make a mess anyway.

* * *

Two hours later, the cupcakes have come out perfectly golden and with the most amazing vanilla smell, the majority of the frosting has been piped on in lovely little swirls, and James makes his move.

The bakers who came up with the recipe, he thinks through a whirlwind of spluttered protests muffled with kisses and finger-painting only to lick it all off, probably never even imagined of using their product like _this_.

"You're terrible," Q chokes out through his helpless laughter, traces of the creamy buttercream that escaped the destruction of James' tongue on his lips, cheeks, and hands.

James, not much better off himself, merely chuckles and presses his lips to Q's. The kiss tastes of sugar and joy. "I love you, too."

* * *

 **OpalescentGold: I do hope no one got diabetes from this. Reviews are always lovely. All the love to gunshyvw. ^.^**


End file.
